


A Favor For A Favor

by derryday



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Awkward Boners, Awkwardness, Bathing/Washing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Missing Scene, Misunderstandings, POV Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Pining, Pre-Relationship, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-25
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-28 05:13:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22898563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derryday/pseuds/derryday
Summary: "I need no one. And the last thing I want is someone needing me."In which Geralt's hair gets a proper wash, Jaskier unleashes his powers of persuasion, and Geralt accidentally agrees to go to the betrothal with him.Or: If the Bath Scene had ended a whole lot smuttier.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 67
Kudos: 796





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, Witcher fandom! Please accept this humble offering as a token of my admiration. What happened is, I watched the Bath Scene, screamed at a pitch audible only to dogs and bats, and thought to myself, gosh, Geralt's hair is still so dirty. Gotta fix that. -- Many, many thanks to [Moonie](https://twitter.com/moonilicious) for beta-reading, especially on such short notice! ♥ 
> 
> Disclaimer: so far I've only watched the show & read _The Last Wish_. I'm chopping this up into 2 chapters because editing it all at once was too daunting a task. I really hope you enjoy!

The bard was infuriating. 

He was loud and presumptuous and so fucking _young_ that even Roach barely tolerated his presence. He somehow fancied that he'd befriended a Witcher, and he never, _ever_ shut his mouth, and...

And somehow, Geralt had not sent him away yet.

It'd been too long since Geralt had spent time in anyone's prolonged company. That was the only explanation he could think of. He'd grown too used to the silent woods, the endless stretches of road and the thump of Roach's hooves... 

The strum of Jaskier's lute had jarred him out of his solitude. He stuck to Geralt like a stubborn burr to fabric. His presence was so bewildering that Geralt hadn't thought to shake off his companion yet.

"The last thing I want," Geralt bit out, struggling to tamp down on his flaring temper, "is someone needing me."

Jaskier barely blinked. He braced his arms against the rim of the tub. "And yet here we are."

Geralt glared at him. Usually, when he looked this fixedly at someone, they averted their gaze, cowed by the inhuman shimmer of his eyes. Some even took a few steps back, muttering about previous engagements they'd suddenly remembered, and strode away with anxiously hunched shoulders.

Well, no longer. Gone were the days when everyone, farmer and count alike, had shrunk from the Butcher of Blaviken's gaze.

Jaskier just stared back. His eyes were blue-gray in the dim light, his mouth pursed slightly in disapproval.

It was Geralt who looked away first, and wasn't that a tale for the ages? The mighty Witcher, losing a staring contest with a bard. 

"You don't need me," he said, scrubbing roughly at a caked-on patch of brown ooze on his arm.

"See, that's where you're wrong," Jaskier said. He stood and resumed puttering around with the bottles and tins on the dresser. "Unless I want my head taken clean off my shoulders by a cuckolded husband tonight, I _do_ need you."

Geralt glowered at his back. Jaskier's shirt had absorbed some of the humid heat of the room. The lace was limp and damp. The fabric clung to his shoulders, sticking to his skin when he moved. 

"So just don't go."

Jaskier sauntered back to the wooden tub, unscrewing a small glass bottle. "You must be joking," he said, with a condescending smile. "Ah, the sweet and naive humor of advanced age..." 

The lid came off with a pop. Jaskier leveled a measuring look at the gunk in Geralt's hair, his dirt-smeared temples. Then he upended the whole bottle into the bath, releasing a stream of honey-colored liquid that smelled strongly of flowers.

Geralt reared back from the stench, coughing. The fragrance would have been strong even to a human; to Geralt's heightened senses, it was overwhelming, clogging his throat. 

Perfumed steam coated the inside of his nostrils. He fought not to gag, covering his nose and mouth with a wet hand that still smelled faintly of rotting water from his fight with the selkiemore, which was frankly an improvement. 

"--even you cannot be that oblivious," Jaskier was saying. "If I were to miss this betrothal, I may as well burn Filavandrel's lute and compose a dirge for my own funeral."

"Find someone else to escort you, then," Geralt croaked. He blinked his watering eyes clear. 

Jaskier was flushed with heat and indignation, his hands propped up on his hips. He'd rolled his sleeves up further, baring sinewy arms dusted with dense, dark hair. The clear blue-gray of his eyes was startlingly bright in the dim room.

\--And why was Geralt looking at the fine, protruding bones of Jaskier's wrists? He yanked his gaze away. The floral steam must have addled his brain. 

"Just ask one of those burly men down in the tavern," he said, taking a breath through his mouth to spare his poor nose. "I'm sure they'd be _more_ than willing--"

 _Fuck._ Geralt winced, the echo of his own biting voice fading in his ears. A flash of anger had shot through him, directionless and unprecedented.

This was why he didn't do this whole blasted... companionship... traveling together... _thing._ Decades of near-total solitude had left him unfit even for the company of a simple bard. 

He spoke too fast, said too much or too little by turns, blurted out his thoughts like some round-cheeked stripling... it was humiliating. 

Jaskier raised his eyebrows. "True," he acknowledged, "but none of them are as skilled as you." 

A short silence fell. The steady thump of Jaskier's heartbeat stuttered. His lips parted like he wanted to say more, but then he turned to once again pick through the chaotic array of bottles on the dresser.

"Here, try this," he said. He tossed a small brush at Geralt, who caught it just before it hit him in the face.

Geralt scrubbed at his nails in the hot water, watching as the rough bristles dislodged the dirt. Dark stains still clung to his knuckles. The selkiemore's blood was like ink, sticking stubbornly to his skin. 

"I cannot be the only swordsman in this whole town," Geralt muttered, more to himself than to Jaskier.

He didn't fucking care if the bard found some strapping lad downstairs who'd accompany him. In fact, he _hoped_ he would. Then Geralt and Roach would finally be rid of him...

"Perhaps not," Jaskier said patiently. "But it is you whom I have chosen to bless with my illustrious company."

He wiped his wrist across his forehead, leaving his hair in tousled disarray. The warmth of the room made sweat bead at his temples and between his collarbones, where his shirt gaped open, exposing a patch of dark hair.

Geralt sighed through his abused nose. The flowery smell seemed to have numbed him. His nostrils no longer stung quite so fiercely. "Lucky me."

"Yes," Jaskier said, preening. His eyes crinkled with his smile, his cheeks a little rosy from the heat. Geralt glanced away.

"--And speaking of need," Jaskier continued, once again squatting down beside the tub. He sighed deeply, his breath tickling Geralt's bare shoulder. _"You_ clearly need assistance bathing, like one of those lords you despise so much, if you cannot even clean your own hair. _Honestly,_ Geralt..."

Suddenly, Jaskier's hand came towards him, his fingers outstretched. He reached for something behind Geralt's head--

Before Geralt could stop himself, his fist had closed around Jaskier's wrist, squeezing hard enough to feel the thin bones grind together. 

Jaskier hissed in a breath through his teeth. Geralt's hand sprang away like he'd been burned. "What the fuck are you doing?" he asked, harsher than he'd meant to.

"Putting my nimble fingers at your disposal," Jaskier said. He wiggled his fingers at Geralt, not seeming to notice the fading pale imprints of Geralt's grip. "Your hair is a _disaster."_

Geralt's palm tingled faintly, like Jaskier's skin had left an imprint on his flesh. "Fine," he said shortly. He picked up the brush again and scrubbed it across his knuckles.

"Splendid!" Jaskier said. He rustled around some more, then sat behind him. A footstool creaked warningly under his weight, then his knee bumped into the tub. 

Tension hardened Geralt's shoulders. He couldn't help it. The back of his neck crawled with the discomfort of having someone in his blind spot, even if the bard could not possibly have hurt him.

Jaskier touched the sticky mass of his hair with a little noise of disgust. Geralt gritted his teeth, but managed not to flinch.

Undoing the wet tie took Jaskier some time. Geralt felt him pick at it with careful fingers, digging his nails into the soaked fabric. The sensitive roots of Geralt's hair stung. Jaskier's patience ran out and he tugged harder, taking a few hairs with him as he pulled it free at last.

 _"Caked_ in blood," Jaskier muttered, disgusted. The tie hit the floor with a wet splat.

"And stomach fluid," Geralt said. The selkiemore had swallowed him, after all.

Jaskier tutted and sighed over the state of his hair. He combed through the hair at the crown of Geralt's head, loosening it from the shape that the tie had left. Geralt's scalp prickled.

"Did you roll around inside that thing?" Jaskier said quietly, but didn't seem to expect an answer.

Geralt let out a slow breath. The back of his neck still itched, but he couldn't deny that Jaskier's hands felt... not entirely disagreeable. Pleasant, even. Jaskier worked with both hands, pulling some strands of hair apart, shaking off chunks of dirt and sludge.

He seemed to be trying not to pull out any more hair. He was no trained manservant, but he _was_ making every attempt to be careful. Unseen, Geralt allowed himself a small smile.

\--And then Jaskier's hand was on his shoulder, pressing insistently. "Down you go," he said. His wet fingers drummed a cheerful rhythm on Geralt's skin. "Let's soak some of that off."

He released Geralt's shoulder with a friendly pat, wholly unaware that Geralt's swords had taken limbs off for less.

For just a moment, Geralt thought wistfully of the day he'd met Jaskier, when he'd punched him in the gut without second thought. He recalled with perfect clarity the dull impact of his fist, the choked gasp as the air had been driven from Jaskier's lungs...

Well. That day was long gone. Now, the memory turned his stomach--a feeling that had once been reserved for Roach bruising her forelegs. He no longer enjoyed how Jaskier had crumpled to the ground, just as much as he disliked thinking of Roach's white-rimmed eyes and tense neck when she was hurt.

Geralt sighed. He didn't feel like yelling at the bard until he left him be. The easiest way out of this was through.

"Fine," he growled, again. He held his breath and dunked himself under.

Hot water closed over his head. It pressed against his ears, muffling everything except for his own heartbeat.

Even underwater, his vision was still quite sharp. He could see the stringy residue of the flowery ooze Jaskier had poured in. Splashes of oil swam on the surface. The water was a little cloudy, but most of the dirt he'd washed off had sunk to the bottom.

A mischievous impulse hit him. He smirked to himself, looking up. Jaskier was a wavering shape above him; a dull knocking reached his ears. Perhaps his fingers tapped impatiently against the side of the tub.

Geralt closed his eyes and let himself go limp. He sank down until his shoulders hit the bottom of the tub and waited.

It didn't take long. He'd barely counted to twenty when he heard a thump. Hands plunged into the water, scrabbling across his chest. Jaskier's voice was muffled, high-pitched with panic.

Fingers grabbed hold of his amulet and pulled. The chain of his necklace bit painfully into Geralt's skin. Then Jaskier seized a handful of his hair and his shoulder and yanked him upwards.

Water slipped over the edge of the tub, splashing onto the floor. Geralt coughed once, wincing at the hard, painful pull of Jaskier's hand in his hair.

"Geralt!" Jaskier shouted. He shook him, hard enough to make Geralt's teeth rattle. "Fuck, _Geralt--"_

Jaskier grabbed his head with both hands, tilting his face up. Geralt caught a glimpse of his pale face and wide, startled eyes, then Jaskier was--

He was _kissing_ him. Soft, supple lips sealed themselves firmly over Geralt's. His fingers dug hard into Geralt's stubbled cheeks, his short nails leaving small, crescent-shaped stings of pain.

Jaskier gasped against Geralt's lips. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed. He sucked in a desperate breath and inexplicably blew it out into Geralt's mouth.

A shiver shot down Geralt's spine. It settled hotly in his belly, raising the hair on his arms into goosebumps. This was--

He wasn't _blind._ He knew how Jaskier looked at him when he thought Geralt didn't notice. A simple, carnal attraction, Geralt had thought, the kind he'd often seen in the hopeful smiles of humans before they spotted his mutated eyes.

But he hadn't thought that Jaskier would-- that he'd ever...

Geralt's heart began to beat harder. Their teeth clacked together. Geralt brought up a hand to touch Jaskier's cheek, trying to gentle the fierce assault of his mouth. He sucked on Jaskier's plump lower lip, then ran his tongue over the spot in apology...

Jaskier jerked back. He shoved Geralt away, hard enough for more water to spill out of the tub. His eyes were bright and glazed with shock. 

_"Geralt?!"_

Geralt stared at him, breathing hard. Blood roared in his ears, running embarrassingly hot after even that brief contact. 

"I-- you're..." Jaskier stammered. The front of his shirt was soaked. The footstool had been overturned on the floor. Water darkened the fabric of his trousers.

He opened and closed his mouth, his eyes wide with shock. He gestured weakly at the tub and sputtered, "I-- I thought you passed out!"

The glowing embers in Geralt's stomach cooled like wet ash. Slowly, he wiped back his sodden hair.

"No," he said, wincing when his voice came out hoarse. He cleared his throat. "It was just a joke, I--"

"A _joke,_ he says," Jaskier said feebly. _"Gods."_

He sank back to sit down on the wet floor, propping his elbows up on his drawn-up knees, and let his head sink low between his shoulders. 

His heart hammered so fast that Geralt could see it in his jugular. His pulse fluttered just under his jaw. That little patch of skin was pale and soft-looking, and if Geralt were to smooth his thumb over it, his calluses would catch on Jaskier's skin...

He shook his head sharply to dispel the image. Jaskier had thought... and he... he'd... 

A few moments ticked past. The silence stretched like syrup, sticky and uncomfortable.

"Are you alright?" Geralt said finally.

 _"No,"_ Jaskier snapped, though without much heat. "You almost gave me a heart attack, you-- you..."

He ran his fingers through his hair, making it stick up every which way. His hands trembled. He fixed Geralt with a wide-eyed, almost hunted look. 

Geralt's thoughts came agonizingly slowly, like they were wading through the same thick mud he'd traversed earlier, when the selkiemore had finally gagged on its last breath. But Jaskier had... 

He gestured dumbly at his face. "What were you..."

Jaskier flushed a startling shade of red. Even his ears went pink. He glanced at the tub, then down at the wet floor. "Oh, I just--" he said, then faltered, his teeth digging hard into his lower lip.

For a moment, Jaskier peered at one of the puddles like it held the wisdom of the ages. A muscle in his cheek twitched. Then some untapped reserve of composure came to his aid.

His shoulders rose with a deep breath. He stood up, wincing as his knees cracked. He smoothed a hand down his wet shirt, then sent Geralt a small, hesitant quirk of a smile.

"You're supposed to breathe for people who are drowning," Jaskier said. His voice was almost steady. "How long can you hold your breath for, anyway?"

Geralt shrugged. His skin felt hot and too tight, confused discomfort spreading through him like ink through water. "I never kept count."

"Of course you haven't," Jaskier sighed, with a familiar hint of exasperation.

He rubbed both hands over his face. The trip-stutter of his heart calmed a little. Geralt eyed him warily, wondering if he would keel over. He'd meant to startle Jaskier, yes, but he hadn't wanted to frighten him like this...

"Long enough to scare the shit out of me, apparently," Jaskier said. He picked up the fallen footstool, scooting it close to the bathtub again. He sat back down and grimaced at the tightly clinging fabric of his damp trousers.

 _That wasn't long,_ Geralt didn't say. It'd been fifteen fucking seconds at most... 

Jaskier looked up in increments, like he had to brace himself for the sight of Geralt's face. He stared first at the rim of the tub and then at the silver medallion where it rested on Geralt's chest...

Their gazes caught and held. Even in the warm candlelight, Jaskier's eyes were so fucking _blue._ He still did not flinch from Geralt's gaze, though there was something drawn and cautious in his small frown.

"Don't think that little stunt will get you out of this," he said, determinedly light-hearted. He smirked at Geralt and rubbed his wet hands. "Alright, turn around."

Geralt obeyed wordlessly. He was grateful for the chance to hide his face.

Jaskier had thought he was in mortal peril, and Geralt had kissed him. He'd _kissed_ him, like a clueless youth so fucking starved for-- affection? Human contact?-- that he'd... 

He blew out an aggravated sigh, barely feeling the pull of Jaskier's hands in his hair. Unfit for company, indeed. It had been some time since he had misunderstood so profoundly. 

Was it just because he'd seen Jaskier look at him, furtive and disconcertingly soft, his glances hot like small touches against Geralt's back? Had he taken an invitation that'd never been uttered out loud?

\--And why the fuck was his hand half-raised to his face, his fingertips poised to touch his still-tingling lips? Geralt let his arm drop back into the bath. He shoved ineffectively at the fresh memory of how soft Jaskier's mouth had been, how hot his lips had felt...

At least Jaskier didn't seem to be holding it against him. His hands were still careful. He pulled gunk out of the hair by his left temple, scooping up some water to soften the grime.

"So, mighty Witcher," Jaskier said. He combed his fingers through the hair he held, clearing out more dirt. "Tell me about the selkiemore."

Geralt seized upon the distraction gratefully. He thought for a moment, then said, "It was alive and now it is not."

Jaskier groaned. _"Details,_ Geralt," he complained. "I cannot conjure a song out of nothing. What would I even write with just that?"

He took a breath. His voice rose into a simple, lilting melody, and Geralt could almost hear the missing strum of his lute. He sang:

_One day, the Witcher came to town,_  
Then gave the beast a mighty frown.  
It dropped stone dead before the morn'. 

"That's just terrible storytelling, Geralt," Jaskier said.

Geralt coughed to hide his rusty chuckle, stoutly ignoring the little shiver that rose on his arms at the clear, rich timbre of Jaskier's voice. "I would've thought conjuring something out of nothing was your specialty."

"Rude," Jaskier said. He dragged a clump of sludge out of some hair at Geralt's nape. "Come on, tell me. Was it a frightening beast? How large were its teeth? You must've been quite the dashing hero. _\--Before_ you got covered in the thing's guts."

Geralt rolled his eyes. This, at least, was a game he knew: the bard would not relent until he'd pried at least a few words from him. 

"I tracked it to the frozen lake and let it swallow me. Then I hacked and slashed my way out from inside." He paused. "Wasn't too hard."

"For _you,"_ Jaskier said. He parted Geralt's hair at the crown of his head, flicking away bits of gore. "Don't forget that it killed numerous villagers before you came along..."

Jaskier trailed off. His hands froze. He asked, disbelieving, "Wait, you _let_ it swallow you?"

"Yes." 

The footstool creaked in protest when Jaskier leaned sideways, his gaze drilling a hole into Geralt's temple. "That was your strategy? That was-- a thing you planned all along?"

"Selkiemore skin is as tough as tanned leather," Geralt said. A defensive note crept into his voice. "It's much easier to get at its heart from the inside."

Jaskier let out an incredulous bark of laughter. His breath brushed the back of Geralt's neck.

"You are _unbelievable,"_ Jaskier said. A smile softened his words. He gave the handful of hair he held an affectionate tug. "I swear, there isn't another man like you."

A small ember began to glow just beside Geralt's beating heart, warm and close. He tried to squash it instantly. "Yeah, they really broke the mold."

Jaskier snorted. "Rinse again," he ordered. 

He settled his palm on Geralt's shoulder. "And none of your jokes this time. My heart can only take so much."

"You're young," Geralt said dismissively. "Your heart will recov--"

Without warning, Jaskier dunked him under. He pushed Geralt into the tub, and a rush of hot water closed over his head.

His shoulder bumped into the wooden floor. It would've been laughably easy for Geralt to shake off Jaskier's hold, grip the hand that held his shoulder and bend it backwards until Jaskier's wrist snapped with a meaty crunch...

He blew out his breath in a string of bubbles. He didn't move. For another few seconds, Jaskier held him down, then tightened his grip on his shoulder to pull him back up. 

He gathered Geralt's hair at the nape of his neck and sifted through it. "Alright, that got out most of it," he said. "Just a moment..."

Geralt wiped some dripping strands out of his face, turning to look at Jaskier over his shoulder. "What was that--?"

The words died in his throat. His mouth went dry. Jaskier had twisted around on his footstool, leaning far over to reach for another cluster of jars and bottles. 

"Revenge," he said primly. Geralt barely heard him. 

Jaskier's damp shirt had slipped out of his trousers, the wrinkled fabric exposing a sliver of pale skin. The waistband of his trousers, though exquisitely tailored, had left a reddened imprint on his hip.

A pulse of interest rose in Geralt's belly. He shook himself, yanking his gaze away.

He closed his hands into fists under the water, staring hard at his now-clean nails. What was _wrong_ with him today? Had the selkiemore given him a knock on the head? He was better than this.

A few bottles clinked. Jaskier unscrewed a few of them, sniffing a couple and flinching back from some. "Nothing with flowers," Geralt warned.

Jaskier sighed at him. "It's just soap." He turned back, a bottle in hand. Water had darkened the hair on his arms, clinging to his wrists in tiny drops...

He didn't seem to notice that his shirt had come loose. He just gestured impatiently until Geralt turned his back to him again.

A few dollops of something cold and oozing landed on his head. Geralt took a tentative sniff, but smelled only a few herbs--nothing too offensive. His skin might smell like a full garden of flowers tonight, but at least his hair would not.

Then Jaskier's hands were back, rubbing the soap into a lather. He was brisker now, either less wary of hurting Geralt, or just fed up with the stubborn ooze that hadn't yet washed out.

He dug his fingers into the hair above Geralt's ears, scrubbing firmly. Geralt shuddered, closing his teeth around a gasp before it could escape. That was--

Jaskier ran his fingers over Geralt's sensitive temples, where he often felt the throb of a headache after too many nights without sleep. His touch pulled deliciously on the finer hair there. 

The bard did not seem to notice that Geralt's shoulders were stiff and taut. He soaped up his hairline, rubbing in vigorous circles, and cupped one hand to Geralt's forehead to prevent the suds from running into his eyes.

Geralt bore the touch as stoically as he could. Foam dripped onto his chest. Under the water, he clenched and unclenched his fists. Jaskier's hands were-- nimble, and much more skilled than he'd thought they would be, and...

And his blood sizzled and woke, unable to tell Jaskier's touch from the caresses of a lover. Geralt glowered at the dresser that stood against the opposite wall, digging his nails into his palms. 

Goosebumps rose on his arms. Confusing impulses warred in him. He wanted to get up and storm out of the room, soapy hair and all. He wanted to lean back into Jaskier's touch. He wanted...

Soap ran down Geralt's neck. He became abruptly aware that he was holding his breath, and let it out in a rush.

He opened his fists and stretched out his hands, half-expecting to hear his joints creak. His scalp tingled. How was his head so fucking _sensitive?_ When he washed his own hair it felt like a chore at best, not nearly as... sensual. 

He winced and shifted in the wooden tub, trying to find a more comfortable position, and...

Oh _fuck_ no. His cock was absolutely _not_ stirring against his thigh, blood-hot and eager, stiffening hopefully.

 _Really?_ Geralt mouthed to himself, glaring down into the foamy water. He'd fought and killed a monster today, ridden back to the village through the falling snow, and endured the bard's blathering-- 

And _now_ his libido stirred, at perhaps the most inopportune moment since that encounter he'd had at the Temerian border about eleven years ago?

 _Fuck._ It was one thing to-- to sneak the occasional, appreciative glance at the bard, his long legs and expressive hands and blue eyes... another to mistake his clumsy attempt to save Geralt from drowning for a kiss. 

Allowing his lust to rise, just from Jaskier's hands in his hair--that was just _pathetic._

Hot tightness congealed in his stomach, radiating down into his thighs. Unencumbered, Geralt's dick twitched a little, rising lazily. 

It did not care that it was utterly humiliating for Geralt of Rivia's blood to rush hotly and his belly to grow tight and wanting with a bard sat in his blind spot... it just wanted to be touched, to be fondled and pulled as gently as Jaskier was sifting through his hair.

Jaskier tugged particularly hard on some caked-on ooze he'd missed. Geralt's scalp stung sharply. The morsel of pain slid down his back, melting into a sticky-warm surge of arousal. Geralt flinched, gasping in a sharp breath.

Jaskier paused for just a moment. "Sorry," he said, absent-minded. 

Geralt pressed his mouth into a thin line. The scratch of Jaskier's nails made him shiver. He silently willed him to linger no more. Surely his hair was no longer that dirty...

As if he'd heard Geralt's thought, Jaskier sat back, flicking foam off his fingers. "I'll let that sit for a moment," he said, then grunted in disgust. "Oh, I've got ooze under my nails."

Geralt let out a slow, relieved sigh. His scalp tingled all over, the sensitive skin roused and hungry. Soap bubbles cooled on his head. A tight, constricted feeling had lodged itself in his chest.

Jaskier shifted on his footstool. Geralt could almost feel his inquisitive stare on the back of his head. "You haven't complained in a while," he said into the silence.

In the water, Geralt loosened his hands, _again._ His nails left stinging imprints in his palms. "Should I be?" he asked back.

"Silence from you usually heralds murder."

Geralt whirled around, fast enough to spill another puddle of bath water onto the floor. He glared at Jaskier, gratified when he reared back. "I don't kill humans!" he snapped.

"I know, I know," Jaskier said quickly. His eyes were wide with surprise, and he reached out to pat Geralt's shoulder. "It was just a joke..."

He paused. His lips parted a little in astonishment, and he looked down at his own hand on Geralt's skin. 

Geralt's heart was beating too fast, stumbling and uneven. He stared pointedly at Jaskier's hand, too, waiting for him to withdraw. 

Jaskier did not seem to notice that his hand was in danger of being roughly pried off. His palm lingered on Geralt's shoulder, squeezing experimentally. 

"Oh, you're tense like a bowstring," he admonished. Then he dug his thumb clumsily into the side of his neck.

Before he knew what he was doing, Geralt had gripped Jaskier's wrist again. Instinct took over, bristling angrily at someone's hand by his throat, even if it was only a hand accustomed to handling a lute rather than a sword. "What are you _doing?"_

"Ow," Jaskier said, and rolled his wrist in Geralt's grip. Geralt let go instantly, a small sting of regret piercing him.

Jaskier pouted, but his wrist was not even red. "These hands are part of my livelihood," he said. "Be careful with them. And have you never had a massage before?"

Geralt gaped at him. Of all the things he'd expected Jaskier to say, starting with, 'I just noticed my touch is arousing to you and shall now choke you to death,' that was possibly the very last. A _massage?_

It was... odd, somehow, that Jaskier looked just like he had earlier, when he'd first sat down behind Geralt. His shirt still hung out of his trousers. Perhaps his face was a little red from the steam that rose from the bath. But his shoulders were relaxed, his heartbeat calm.

Geralt narrowed his eyes. Jaskier seemed so-- _unaffected._ He met Geralt's gaze guilelessly, raising his eyebrows at the prolonged silence.

"No," Geralt said at last, though that wasn't entirely true. He was sure that if he racked his brains, he'd come up with some giggly whore who might've playfully kneaded at his shoulders once or twice...

"A tragedy," Jaskier said. He twirled his finger imperiously, gesturing for Geralt to give him his back again. "No wonder you're always so grumpy. Turn around."

 _Grumpy._ Geralt shot Jaskier a glare. 

He should just rinse out the soap and get out of the tub, and hope that the colder air of the bedroom would cool his ardor. Perhaps his cock would soften as he dried his hair. Or he'd shut the door in Jaskier's face and take matters into his own hands, wringing a quick, unsatisfying orgasm from himself...

"--But rinse out the soap first," Jaskier said, and ran his fingers quickly through the ends of Geralt's hair. "It'll dry out otherwise, and we can't have that tonight, your hair would get all frizzy..."

This time, Geralt went under the water before Jaskier could push him. It seemed easier that way.

He scrubbed both hands roughly across his scalp. Soap suds flecked the water, spreading across the surface in a thin film that mercifully hid him from view. The bath was losing some of its heat, but it was still pleasantly warm, though the tub no longer steamed.

Geralt stared accusingly at his dick. The curls of his pubic hair were soft and floaty in the water. His erection was half-hard, flushed a healthy pink. The head peeked out of the foreskin a little, like some curious critter emerging from its burrow.

 _Stop it, you opportunistic bastard,_ he said to it, silently. _This is not the time._

He came back up, tilting his head back to keep his hair out of his face. His thighs tensed, his heels digging into the wooden floor of the tub. For a moment, he could see himself rising, stepping out of the water. He would snatch a towel to cover himself and let Jaskier's complaints bounce off his shroud of silence...

Then Jaskier had seized hold of his hair again, wringing it out and finger-combing it back. Geralt held back a curse. 

His ears felt warm with embarrassment. He couldn't help but grudgingly admire Jaskier's stubbornness. Even for a battle-hardened Witcher, there was no escaping the bard's clutches tonight.

Water dripped onto his shoulders. "Alright," Jaskier said. Geralt heard his knuckles crack. "I haven't done this in a while, so bear with me..."

Unbidden, an image rose in front of Geralt's mind's eye: Jaskier's slim hands on the shoulders of some barrel-chested, burly swordsman, his fingers digging into tanned flesh and rubbing over the knobs of a strong spine...

He blew out an aggravated breath, shifting. The thought rankled him _much_ more than it should have.

Jaskier placed his hands on his shoulders. The touch was so light that it almost tickled. A small sigh brushed against his wet, tousled hair, then Jaskier stroked and prodded carefully at Geralt's tense shoulders. 

His hands shook a little, betraying the nervousness his voice hadn't revealed. Geralt hid a wince. Discomfort warred with the warmth that melted in his groin. The poking felt rather like Jaskier thought his shoulders were freshly risen dough, too sticky to be worked with.

"Okay," Jaskier said to himself. He closed his palms around Geralt's shoulders, palpating the tense muscles a little harder.

Geralt bit his lip. Blood rushed and quickened in his ears. Jaskier's fingers were _callused._ He hadn't realized that the strings of Filavandrel's lute were tough enough to wear away the softness of Jaskier's hands... 

Those small, hardened patches of skin scratched tantalizingly against the knobs at the top of his spine. They left tingling trails in their wake, like embers flying off a forest fire, igniting jagged stretches of land as the wind tossed them farther away.

Jaskier settled into a languid rhythm. The footstool creaked as he swayed, growing bolder and putting more of his weight behind his hands. 

"--swing those swords around all day," he muttered. His voice sounded closer than it had been. He was leaning over Geralt, using the height of his seat as leverage. "I might as well be squeezing rocks..."

Geralt snorted softly. An odd nervousness seized hold of him, fluttering in his stomach. It felt young and fragile, like a fresh sprout off some gnarled old tree. His heartbeat drummed in his belly and palms.

Jaskier's grip was strong now, unrelenting. He started just by Geralt's upper arms, then worked his way towards his neck. 

Geralt only just managed to turn his surprised yelp into an outrush of breath. That _hurt,_ a hot, dull ache that slid honey-sweet down his spine and made blood pulse into his cock.

He wanted to sit stiffly under the bard's ministrations, enduring. But his head drooped forward on its own, giving those nimble fingers more room. He took sharp, quick breaths, struggling to keep his eyes open. 

Jaskier dug his thumbs into Geralt's skin, pressing deep into the hardened muscle. A full-body shiver raced through him. His hips twitched on their own accord, his thighs falling open under the water. His dick pulsed and swelled. 

A groan sat in his throat, perilously close to bursting free. Jaskier's hands were so _warm,_ a little puffy from the water...

Something in him woke, roused to prickling awareness. It stretched lazily, like a hibernating animal starved for-- touch, or an orgasm, or _affection,_ or whatever the fuck it thought Jaskier might feed it with. Its hunger was sharp and toothy, burning in Geralt's blood.

Jaskier didn't stop. He paused for breath, then held on to Geralt's shoulders with both hands. He pulled and kneaded, tugging the thick, tense muscles this way and that, with the same dogged determination that'd kept him by Geralt's side even after the disaster with the elves.

Geralt let his eyes fall shut. Fucking _hell._

How the fuck could hands that produced annoyingly catchy melodies, stuffed bread into places where it did not belong, and flew every which way to accompany Jaskier's incessant streams of chatter, feel so _good?_

\--And _why_ had he ever allowed the bard to lay a single finger on him? He should've known it would come to this, with Jaskier oblivious behind him, and himself burning with frustrated arousal--

A sharper pain erupted between his shoulders. Jaskier's fingers slipped on a cluster of bumpy knots. 

Caught off-guard, Geralt flinched hard. He jerked forward, shuddering, unsure whether he wanted to pull away from Jaskier's touch or push into it.

At last, the moan he'd been holding back broke free. It came out strangled and breathless, trapped behind his teeth.

"I know, I know," Jaskier murmured. He was wholly absorbed in his task, and barely seemed to notice he was speaking at all. "Just a moment..."

Geralt shivered helplessly. The words were slow, almost tender, Jaskier's earlier acerbic tone stripped away... 

Jaskier's breath was a little unsteady, caressing the back of Geralt's neck. He pressed both thumbs on either side of Geralt's spine, low between his shoulders, where Geralt hadn't known he _could_ hurt.

He dug deep, and Geralt bit down on the inside of his cheek. His arousal burned so hot it felt like a bruise, thick and aching in his belly. Jaskier grunted softly with effort, rolling the pressure of his fingers slowly back and forth.

Suddenly, the pain melted into warm relief. That place between his shoulders still hurt, but the sting went out of it, until it felt less like the touch of a hot poker and more like an overworked muscle.

Geralt breathed out, slumping forward. A hot, rewarding ache rose in his back, blunt and spreading. He felt weak-kneed and wrung out...

It took him a moment to realize Jaskier had stopped touching him. His hands were gone, leaving Geralt's shoulders feeling oddly bereft.

"...not overwork the area," Jaskier was saying. The words barely made it through the thump of Geralt's heartbeat in his ears. "Or I might make it worse..."

Geralt's legs felt numb, but he still managed to brace his feet against the bottom of the tub. He leaned forward, rising shakily onto his knees. His erection was hard and heavy, bobbing eagerly between his legs.

"You're done," he croaked, his voice tattered and husky.

The brittle construct of his self-control cracked and flaked. He had to get up _now,_ and step out of this tub while he still had a tenuous hold on himself--

But Jaskier seized him by the hair, holding on stubbornly. "No, I am not," he said, exasperated. "As if I'd leave you like this."

Geralt froze. For a single, excruciating moment, he thought Jaskier had noticed his... predicament. An icy rush of humiliation crashed over him even as the fire in his belly leaped, roaring its hungry approval. He held his breath.

But Jaskier said, "You cannot go to the betrothal with a string of... of _entrails_ hanging into your face. How did I _miss_ this?"

A tug on his wet hair. Then Jaskier flicked away the offending piece of gunk with a disgusted grunt. Something splattered against the floor.

Geralt released a shaky sigh. He felt like a plucked string, vibrating helplessly under Jaskier's unknowing hands... 

He jerked forward, away from Jaskier's touch. "Enough," he growled.

He rose and snatched up a towel, wrapping it quickly around his waist. His knees went weak when his knuckles briefly brushed his aching erection, and Geralt hunched over, turning his whimper into a strangled cough. _Fuck,_ he was sensitive, swollen and throbbing...

He grabbed another towel to hold in front of himself. Water sluiced off him when he took an ungainly step out of the tub, nearly stumbling as he struggled to keep his back to the bard. The floor was slick and wet under his bare feet. 

"Oh," Jaskier said behind him, taken aback. "Well, alright..."

His confused gaze sat right between Geralt's shoulders. Geralt shuffled quickly past the curtains to the door, keeping his back to Jaskier. 

He ducked into the adjacent bedroom. The door shut behind him, and Geralt let out a long sigh of relief.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for giving the first chapter (and me!) such a warm reception!! Here is chapter two, which is 90% filth, and about 1% of me trying to channel some feral bard energy & write a bawdy song. I hope you enjoy. <3

Though a fire burned in the hearth, the bedroom was much cooler. Geralt shivered. His bare, wet skin prickled into goosebumps. 

A cloud of steam had followed him, billowing out of the bathroom. It still stank of flowers.

Outside, it had started snowing again. White flakes fell gently, floating down into the currently empty marketplace. Most of the villagers seemed to have sought shelter from the cold. A single middle-aged woman was out and about, pushing a wheelbarrow filled with hay towards the stables.

Geralt braced his arm against the wall by the window and pressed his forehead to his wrist, willing himself to calm down. 

It was _just Jaskier._ He'd touched Geralt a little, and now Geralt's body had decided it wanted him? Was he so fucking lonely that all it took to wake the ache of yearning were two hands on his skin, soapy and warm?

 _(You wanted him before,_ whispered a small voice at the back of his head. _You just can't admit it._

 _Fuck off,_ Geralt retorted.)

And he wasn't... Jaskier wouldn't... yeah, so he fucking-- _looked_ at Geralt sometimes, but--

But that was neither an invitation, nor an offer. And Jaskier wasn't some tavern wench he could tumble into the sheets and then never speak to again. He was-- different.

Geralt sighed. The much-feared White Wolf was standing by the window like an idiot, with an erection hard enough to pound nails, and water running down his back from his wet hair. If Eskel could've seen him right now, he would have laughed himself sick.

He wiped his hair out of his face, looking blearily around the room.

The bed was ostentatiously large, clearly meant for two. Pillows were piled up by the headboard. Blankets covered the mattress, and a chest of drawers stood by the far wall.

At first, the innkeeper had looked at Geralt doubtfully, covered as he'd been in slime and muck. Grudgingly, Geralt admitted that it'd been the impromptu round of Jaskier's blasted song that had softened the man's attitude and made him generous. 

In the end, the innkeeper had volunteered his finest set of rooms for Geralt to bathe and recuperate in, after the ale had washed the taste of selkiemore out of his mouth. 

The door creaked open again. "--catch a cold," Jaskier was saying, shouldering his way into the bedroom, "with your hair dripping like that. Here."

Geralt half-turned, careful to keep his lower body angled away, just in time to catch a third towel Jaskier flung at his head. The door closed, shutting out the warm steam that rolled out of the bathroom.

They stared at each other in silence. Jaskier's hands were red and damp, slightly wrinkled from the hot water. His face was flushed, his gaze questioning. Geralt found himself lingering on his elegant fingers, the whorls of his knuckles, and tore his eyes away.

"Thanks," he said, his voice a rough scrape. He held up the towel, then winced and dropped his hand. It wasn't like him to thank anyone for every little thing, and certainly not the bard.

"You're... welcome," Jaskier said, cautiously. His gaze flickered back and forth between Geralt's eyes. 

He still hadn't noticed that his shirt had slipped out of his trousers. The fabric was rumpled around his waist where he'd leaned over earlier, and Geralt knew now how soft the skin beneath it looked. He could vividly imagine how it'd redden under the possessive clutch of his hands...

Geralt shook his head to clear it. Abruptly, Jaskier's scrutiny became unbearable, like the aggravating whisper of too-rough fabric against his skin. He turned away and perched uneasily at the foot of the bed. 

If he hunched over and scooted onto the very edge of the mattress, tilting his hips down, his erection was almost unnoticeable under his two towels. His dick was finally wilting a little, though the pull in his groin burned on, like a hot wire that twisted and curled in on itself in frustration.

The third towel was rough against Geralt's hair. He had to admit that Jaskier had done a far better job washing it than Geralt would've done himself. It felt soft and clean, easily yielding its moisture to the fabric.

He scrubbed quickly, a hunted itch settling between his shoulders. As soon as his hair was no longer dripping, he'd scramble into his clothing and armor... and then they could leave this whole painfully awkward situation behind them...

He paused. His _armor._ He had not seen it anywhere, nor his sopping wet clothes.

"Jaskier," Geralt said over his shoulder, with what he felt was a superior amount of patience, "where the fuck are my clothes?"

Jaskier shrugged. He still stood by the door and gazed at Geralt's back, strangely intent. It felt odd to sit while the bard did not, like Jaskier was his squire or something, and Geralt a rough-tempered, taciturn knight.

"They were covered in selkiemore guts," Jaskier said, briefly examining his nails, "so I had them sent away to be washed."

 _Fuck._ Of course. Geralt made an effort to unclench his jaw.

He took a deep breath through his nose and dabbed away some water that'd trickled down his temple. There was no reason to snarl at Jaskier; it was quite thoughtful and sensible of him to arrange for Geralt's clothes to be scrubbed clean.

"And anyway, I've procured some more suitable attire for you," Jaskier added, brightening.

He gestured to the dresser. A small pile of clothing sat on top of it, and Geralt caught sight of blue, shimmering fabric.

He glowered at Jaskier, well aware that his wet, tangled hair probably made him a lot less intimidating than normal. "You planned this," he accused.

"Only a little bit," Jaskier said, now cheerfully unafraid. He placed a hand over his heart. "I consider it a matter of honor. Friends don't let friends walk into Queen Calanthe's court wearing... _armor."_ He said it like a dirty word.

"I'm not your..." Geralt sighed. "Nevermind. And you are presuming I will come with you."

"Well, yes," Jaskier said. He gave Geralt a winning smile, though his fingers clenched in a brief rush of nervousness. "I'm certain you will. You see, I have not yet unleashed my full powers of persuasion."

Geralt rolled his eyes. He raised the towel to his hair again, tugging its dry patches through the wet strands.

He was not entirely sure when he'd decided that he would go with Jaskier tonight, but he had.

An evening among aristocrats would be deeply exhausting, an indignity that Geralt would suffer with great reluctance. But he did not wish for Jaskier to lose his head to the wrath of a cuckolded husband. 

(He was fairly certain that Roach had grown used to his company, the strum of his lute, and the occasional song. If he disappeared suddenly, she might be sad.)

"Your full powers of persuasion?" he repeated, smirking a little despite himself. "I'm not sure I--"

A shadow fell across the bed. Then Jaskier sat down close beside him. He hitched one leg up, folding it so that his shin was pressed firmly against Geralt's ass, rubbing the rough towel against his sensitive skin. 

At some point, Jaskier had taken off his boots. His socked feet were surprisingly slim, damp from the water Geralt's hasty exit from the tub had sloshed everywhere. 

Tension sat stiffly in his shoulders. He didn't quite meet Geralt's eyes, instead choosing to stare at his medallion.

He wet his lips several times, then placed a hand on Geralt's thigh, perilously high, just below the edge of the towel.

"How would you like it," he said slowly, picking each word out with care, "if I... helped you with that?" And he shot a meaningful glance down at Geralt's lap.

Geralt felt his face go hot and then numb. He stared at Jaskier, speechless. Whatever he'd expected him to say, that was _not fucking it._

The thud of Jaskier's heart seemed louder, more urgent. Its beat was fast but steady, betraying his anxiety. His hand was warm on Geralt's bare skin, his fingers tickling the fine hairs on his thigh.

Geralt said, "What?"

Jaskier took a deep, fortifying breath. "You kissed me," he said. He seemed to gain confidence with each word, relaxing a little. His eyes crept up to Geralt's face now, blue and determined. "When I thought you were drowning. You kissed me."

Discomfort washed over Geralt, like a bucket of cold water emptied over his head. For a long, teetering moment, he saw himself jumping up, shouting at Jaskier and throwing him out of the room, perhaps even forcing him to the door at the point of his sword...

He flinched away from that last image. "It was nothing," Geralt snapped. He clutched tightly at the towel that covered his lap, his knuckles whitening around the damp fabric. "I--"

Jaskier's hand slid a little higher. "It didn't feel like nothing," he said.

Geralt worked his jaw, trying not to grit his teeth. He stared numbly at the now closed door that led to the bathroom. They had both left wet footprints on their way into the bedroom. The damp patches were already half-dried. 

"I didn't mean-- I _misunderstood,"_ he ground out. "When I-- you have my apologies."

A small frown appeared between Jaskier's eyebrows. His mouth firmed into a thin line of disapproval. "I neither want nor require them," he said testily, and a small ache in Geralt's heart faded into relief--meek trepidation did not suit him. "You didn't do anything wrong."

Geralt closed his eyes for a brief moment. This wasn't... he _really_ fucking didn't... 

This was _not_ the way the day had been supposed to go. 

He'd only wanted to scrub off the gunk on him, perhaps drink an ale or two, and take a nap... And now here they were, on the edge of a bed big enough for two, with tension thick and crackling between them.

(He couldn't help but imagine it: Jaskier's long fingers wrapped tightly around his slick, hot cock, stroking him, his thumb smearing through the wetness at the tip with agonizing slowness...)

A fine tremor shook Jaskier's hand on Geralt's thigh. It was faint enough that he wouldn't have noticed it, if not for his enhanced senses. Still, the bard hitched his fingers a little higher, getting dangerously close to the bulge under Geralt's towels. 

"It's a simple offer," Jaskier said. "A favor for a favor. What do you say?"

Geralt blew out a breath. "Fine. I'll go with you." 

"Brilliant!" Jaskier said. A smile lit up his face, a little shaky with relief and-- something else. 

His pulse tripped over itself, then hammered on. He leaned closer to Geralt, his shirt almost brushing his bare shoulder. 

Geralt sucked in a small breath. This close, Jaskier's scent was dizzying, clean sweat and soap and something else that was uniquely him. His fingers continued their determined slide, up under the towel, along a thick, gnarled scar on Geralt's thigh.

The hair on Geralt's skin rasped under his palm, until Jaskier nearly touched the warm, damp crease where his thigh met his hip--

Geralt grabbed his wrist and yanked his hand out from under the towel. Something in his chest wilted and shriveled. Though it shouldn't have, it fucking _stung_ that Jaskier thought him so selfish.

"Did you not hear me?" he snapped. "I _said_ I'll go with you. You don't have to..."

Jaskier turned his exasperated gaze briefly up to the ceiling. "I know." He said it like Geralt was slow or stupid, and his eyes were so fucking _blue,_ fierce and uncompromising. 

He jostled Geralt lightly, bumping their shoulders together. "I want to," he said, quite simply. A small smirk lurked at the corner of his mouth, and he waved at Geralt with his free hand. "Have you _seen_ yourself?"

Geralt's hackles rose, an almost wounded anger leaping in him. He bared his teeth at Jaskier. "Don't you fucking--" 

_\--toy with me._ The words sat right on his tongue, and he clamped his mouth shut, biting them back just in time. 

Fire sparked in Jaskier's eyes. "I'm _not,"_ he snapped, then paused.

Whatever he saw in Geralt's expression quelled his ire. "I'm not," he said again, quieter, gentler.

His gaze softened, slid briefly down to Geralt's lips. He blinked slowly. His eyelashes cast long shadows onto his cheeks. Jaskier's scent had changed, deepened, a thick note of slowly rousing lust creeping into the salt of his sweat.

Geralt sucked in a shaky breath, suddenly filled to the brim with the memory of how hot and wet Jaskier's mouth had been over his--

Jaskier tilted his chin at Geralt's lap. "As if I'd let this go to waste," he said, with some of his usual reckless humor.

But his throat bobbed as he swallowed, a crisp note of apprehension working its way into his scent. "So? What do you say?"

They looked at each other. Geralt realized Jaskier hadn't pulled away from his grip. Geralt's fist had loosened into an almost gentle hold around his wrist, and Jaskier's skin was warm under his fingers.

Geralt's pulse raced, almost half as quick as a human's. His heart pounded hard enough that his chest shuddered with it, brittle and vulnerable. There was no reason why he should say yes, and yet-- and yet... 

He was no beardless youth, desperate for a quick fumble in between hunting trips... 

Surely it would be far less complicated to send Jaskier away, and spurt his seed over his own fist to the thought of the bard's nimble fingers in his hair... He'd find a whore or two tomorrow to slake his lust...

Geralt inclined his head. His face burned hotly. He couldn't speak, and he was not entirely sure why his head was moving. But it did, and he nodded once and then froze, holding his breath.

"Well, _good,"_ Jaskier said, pointedly, like an exasperated teacher who'd just watched his student fumble through a simple task.

He patted Geralt's thigh, like soothing a spooked horse. It was casual and utterly insulting and for some reason, it unwound some of the tight, wary feeling in Geralt's chest. 

"Get comfortable," Jaskier said, tossing him a quick smile, and got up.

The mattress sank again as Jaskier sat down by the heap of pillows. He opened and closed several drawers of the nightstand, then hummed in satisfaction and withdrew a small bottle.

There was something exceedingly surreal about Jaskier methodically coating his hands in oil. His fingers still shook a little, betraying his nerves even if the rest of his demeanor did not. Geralt couldn't look away from his short nails and compact knuckles, the calluses he now knew where there, the hair that dusted his arms...

This wasn't some busty barmaid or whore, winking at him from the other side of a noisy tavern. This was _Jaskier,_ who unabashedly called himself Geralt's friend, who tried to win Roach's affection with small apples and carrots, and _never_ shut up...

Jaskier, who turned back to him and stilled, seeing that Geralt had not moved. He sighed. "Must I tell you how to do everything?" he said. He gestured towards the headboard. "Move up here, come on."

Geralt scooted up the bed until he could lean back against the pillows. His throat was too tight to speak. 

What the fuck were they _doing?_

It was like falling, the stomach-clenching rush just after stepping off a ledge, wind cutting sharply at his face and sucking the confused thoughts right out of his head...

Jaskier came over to him, sliding across the covers on his knees. His cheeks were flushed a fetching shade of pink. He settled down next to Geralt, rubbing his hands to warm the oil. 

"Alright," he said, pragmatically. "Let's see what we have here."

Geralt huffed, but found himself smirking a little, almost against his will. The hard knot in his chest loosened. "I do hope you know what I have there."

"Actually," Jaskier said, grinning suddenly, a spark of mischief lighting up his eyes, "legend has it that Witchers, being abominations against nature and all that, have a number of tentacles that ooze a--"

Geralt covered Jaskier's mouth with his hand. "I don't want to know."

Jaskier licked his palm. Geralt withdrew his hand with a muffled curse, scowling. But Jaskier just gave him a triumphant little smile, and folded back the towel, baring Geralt's skin to the cool air.

Then he stared. And _stared,_ his gaze roaming over the dark thatch of hair between Geralt's thighs, the heavy, flushed weight of his erection. He took a slow breath and wet his lips, his eyes all but feasting on the damp, rosy tip of his cock.

Itchy discomfort trickled down Geralt's back. He was not _shy_ by any means... girls had certainly smirked at him before, or licked their lips at the sight of his dick. But the blotchy redness that crept up Jaskier's neck was-- different.

Jaskier glanced at him. His eyes had gone a little glazed and hungry. "Now these," he said with conviction, "are loins to write songs about."

The moment snapped like a twig. An odd rush of relief hit him. "Don't you dare," Geralt warned. 

As if it wasn't already annoying enough to be followed everywhere by Jaskier's first song. The last thing he needed was some simpering, lyrical ballad about his cock.

Jaskier laughed. "I won't," he said. And he wrapped his hand around Geralt's dick, giving him a slow stroke from root to tip.

Geralt sucked in a quick, pained breath. Finally, _finally._

His cock twitched eagerly in Jaskier's grip. The relief of being touched was strong enough to steal his breath. The urgent simmer in his groin melted outwards, into his thighs and hips.

"That's it," Jaskier murmured. "There we go..." 

His voice was low and velvety, warm with approval. He worked up a slow rhythm, his fingers slicking warm oil over Geralt's erection. He followed the vein on the underside, pressing gently at the base.

"Oh, f--" Geralt's voice cracked. Jaskier rubbed his palm over the head of his cock, sliding his foreskin over the sensitive glans. 

Being touched after burning for so long was almost painful. The Trial of the Grasses had left all of Geralt's senses heightened, and he imagined he could feel every individual line in Jaskier's palm, the fine grain of skin on his fingertips. His hand was so _warm,_ his grip tight and slick...

Geralt gasped and sighed. Heat suffused him, rising to his face and chest. The world narrowed to Jaskier, who leaned closer and pulled gently on Geralt's cock, tightening the hold of his slender hand, until his calluses scraped across the thin, stretched skin.

Jaskier's eyes were very dark, his mouth slightly open to let out his shaky breath. He searched Geralt's face, a near-frantic hunger in his trembling lips.

"Fuck, Geralt," he said, almost reverently. "You're _beautiful."_

The word lodged itself under Geralt's skin like the point of a knife. "Sh-shut up," he managed, squirming.

The sensitive tip of his erection pulsed when Jaskier's grip dragged slowly, so slowly over the wet glans. Geralt's nerves sparked and hummed. He couldn't stop his slow writhing, the rough towel scratching almost painfully against the skin of his ass. 

Jaskier made a little noise at the back of his throat. He pressed his other hand to Geralt's quivering stomach, smearing oil around as he held him down. 

If Geralt had truly wanted to get off the bed, Jaskier wouldn't have been able to hold him. But the illusion of surrender under the bard's hands still thrilled him. He grunted and slumped back into the pillows, a muscle on the inside of his thigh twitching erratically.

"You're so..." Jaskier sighed, his eyes molten and half-lidded. "Your hair is like moonlight, it's--"

He moaned low in his throat, a furrow of frustration appearing between his brows. His hand shook as he slid it gently across Geralt's trembling stomach. A sizable bulge filled out the front of his trousers, and Geralt could smell his arousal, a musky tang of salt that mingled with the thicker aroma of his own lust.

Geralt dropped his head back into the pillows, unable to do anything but _feel._ He fisted both hands in the sheets and held on. His cock leaked steadily, small beads of moisture squeezing from the tip. 

The sound of Jaskier's hand grew slicker, wetter. The tingling, almost painful pull of arousal went all the way through Geralt's belly, his balls and ass. He clung to his control, struggling not to finish too quickly, though his skin felt tight and ready, his swollen erection aching and begging for release.

Jaskier spread his legs a little to get more comfortable, and let out a breathy groan as his trousers pulled tight over his erection. Only a thin ring of blue was visible around his blown pupils. His neck and cheeks were flushed hotly.

"Fuck," he said shakily. _"Look_ at you... you're magnificent."

Geralt turned his head away, pressing his hot cheek into a pillow. "Stop _talking,"_ he ground out.

Jaskier let out a small huff of laughter. "Or what?" he said, a small, shaky smile nestled into the corner of his mouth.

He squeezed the head of Geralt's cock, letting it slip gently out of his wet fist. Geralt saw stars, the edges of his vision juddering in time with his heartbeat. His groan pitched embarrassingly high. 

He squirmed helplessly under Jaskier's ministrations. Pressure built in his belly. His clenched fists barely felt the fabric he was clutching. 

He couldn't stop making noise, moaning brokenly every time Jaskier tightened and twisted his strokes around the wet head of his cock. He felt raw and exposed, completely at the mercy of Jaskier's nimble hands, his balls a tight, aching weight between his legs.

Jaskier's eyes had gone wider. He looked at Geralt like he was some sort of vision, sent to him by his elusive muse. His hand was a grounding weight on his quivering stomach, his thumb just brushing the curls between his legs. 

_"Geralt,"_ he whispered. His voice broke. He bent over Geralt's prone form, his breath coming faster. 

He leaned down, down, a wordless yearning in the trembling shape of his mouth-- 

Panic sparked in Geralt's chest, a hard-edged splinter. He turned his face away. "No kissing," he panted roughly, his voice scraping like gravel in his tight throat.

Something flickered in Jaskier's gaze, there and gone in an instant. His mouth tightened a little, but he nodded and sat back.

A brief, unexpected stab of regret hit Geralt. He blinked, wrong-footed, some of his ardor cooling. Surely Jaskier hadn't _truly_ meant to kiss him? It was a preposterous idea, one that almost made him laugh. Later, Jaskier would thank him for turning his head away. A kiss would only complicate things--

Jaskier slid his other hand around his cock too, squeezing gently at the base while he ran his fingers around the head. 

Geralt had to shut his eyes again. Lights imploded behind his closed lids. His heart pounded against his ribs, sweat beading on his chest and stomach. His thighs shook, his toes curling.

It was over embarrassingly fast. Geralt tried to hold out, prolong it; who knew what tales Jaskier had heard about legendary Witcher endurance... but Jaskier's touch dragged him inexorably towards the edge.

Jaskier rubbed the slick sheath of Geralt's foreskin against his shaft. He was gasping right along with Geralt, quick, heavy breaths just on the edge of small moans. The buttons on his trousers were straining to contain his erection. He rocked his hips in tight little circles, like he couldn't help himself...

Geralt shut his eyes, digging his heels into the mattress. Jaskier's hands were wet and tight around him, his fingers squeezing slickly around the pulsing head of his cock, and Geralt held his breath and flew apart.

Jaskier stroked him through it. His teeth were digging into his lower lip hard enough to whiten it. He stared at the strings of come that Geralt's cock spat all over his hand, hissing out an almost pained sigh. 

When a mortal man's orgasm might have tapered off, Jaskier slowed and started to let him go. Geralt whimpered, his hips jerking helplessly, struggling to chase his touch.

 _"Fuck,"_ Jaskier said, heartfelt and shaky. He gentled his hold, but kept twisting his wrist on each upstroke, and coaxed more spurts of seed from Geralt's aching balls, until finally the rush tapered off and left him dazed.

Geralt fell back into the pillows, panting for breath. His hands and feet tingled. The amulet felt cool against his heaving chest. 

Jaskier's breath was nearly as fast as his. He sat back, his eyes dazed and heavy-lidded. He wiped his hands on the towel and, with surprising gentleness, wiped off Geralt's stomach and thighs until only a thin, sticky film remained. 

Geralt lay limply on his back. His breath slowed, some feeling returning to his fingers. A fine sheen of sweat had risen on his stomach, mingling with the oil Jaskier's hands had left in their wake. His hair felt tacky and half-dried against the pillows.

A raw hunger still burned in him, unsated even by the orgasm that'd made his ears ring. His spine felt like molten steel, the strength sapped from him. He grunted with effort, but managed to prop himself up on his elbows, then sat up.

His forehead nearly collided with Jaskier's. Geralt couldn't look away from Jaskier's crotch, the heavy, swollen length of his cock still trapped by his trousers. He undid the first few buttons in a haze, wanting only to free the straining erection there-- 

No. _No._ He had to... he couldn't just... Geralt forced his hands into stillness, settling his palms on Jaskier's thighs. He ducked to meet his gaze, questioning.

Jasker gaped at him owlishly, his mouth half-open, like he had no idea what Geralt meant to do. He looked dazed, overwhelmed.

"Talk to me," Geralt growled, his voice wrecked and husky.

Jaskier shivered all over. "Yes," he whispered. "Yes, _yes,_ oh--"

Geralt yanked hard at the last few buttons, struggling not to tear them off. Jaskier's cock bobbed eagerly under his drawers. A damp patch had already formed on the thin fabric, turning the white nearly translucent.

The scent of sweat and salty, musky arousal was stronger now. Geralt's mouth watered, an almost painful surge of lust pulling tight in his stomach, and he had to take a deep breath to steady himself. He wanted to fall on Jaskier like a man possessed, take the swollen length of his cock into his mouth, get it all the way down into his clenching throat-- 

_Not now, not yet._ This was a moment for simpler, gentler things. 

With trembling hands, he undid the laces of Jaskier's underwear. His erection was surprisingly long, rising proudly to brush against his rumpled shirt. His cock was paler than Geralt's, though the head was flushed a healthy pink.

Jaskier stared at him. There was something wild and almost a little frightened in his eyes, like he had not actually believed Geralt would touch him until now. His hands had somehow wound up on Geralt's arms, his nails leaving faint little half-moons of pressure.

Geralt hesitated, waiting, but Jaskier did not push him away. The leftover oil on Jaskier's fingers smeared against the hair on his forearms. He held on to steady himself, like Geralt might disappear if he let go.

Something warm and dangerously soft cracked open in Geralt's chest. He wrapped his hand carefully around Jaskier's dick, and Jaskier sighed in relief. His eyes pressed shut.

He could tell it wouldn't take long. From the way Jaskier swayed like he'd taken a blow to the head, he was almost ready to finish. Geralt's breath caught hard in his throat--Jaskier had gotten this aroused just from tending to him...

Jaskier clutched at him. He allowed Geralt to tumble him onto his back, hitting the mattress without an ounce of hesitation. His eyes were half-closed and glittering, not the least bit worried that a Witcher was leaning over him, the silver medallion dangling almost close enough to brush his chest.

Geralt slid a hand into Jaskier's hair and pulled, tight but careful, tipping his head back. He mouthed along his throat, finally, finally scraping his teeth down that tempting vein he'd seen beat so fervently. 

He was rewarded with a moan that rose into a whine. "G-Geralt," Jaskier sighed, squirming under him. He arched his back, tilting his head to give Geralt more room. One hand clung to Geralt's arm, the other clenched desperately in the covers.

Geralt ran his lips along his throat, the sensitive hollow above his collarbone. His skin tasted salty and somehow sweet. He nosed at Jaskier's collar, nudging it further open. 

Jaskier's chest heaved with every gasping breath. Geralt wished he'd pulled the shirt over his head. As it was, he just buried his nose in the dark thatch of hair that his collar revealed, breathing in deep. Jaskier smelled like sweat and lust, paper and ink, and he...

He was making helpless noises at the back of his throat, little whines that trailed off into long, strung-out breaths. His cock felt hard and silky-soft in Geralt's hand. The head was red and wet, peeking out of the circle of Geralt's fist.

Geralt surged up. A new urge simmered in him, opening up a slicing ache in his chest. He met Jaskier's startled gaze, but he couldn't speak. A lump sat in his throat like a hot coal. He wanted-- he wanted...

He loosened his hand in Jaskier's hair, giving him ample room to pull away. Geralt hovered there, their faces inches apart. Jaskier's eyes fell half-shut and he parted his lips in wordless permission. 

Geralt kissed him. He pressed his mouth to Jaskier's, a little harder than he'd wanted to, but the longing that throbbed in his heart eroded his gentleness. 

Jaskier groaned, his teeth catching on Geralt's lower lip. Geralt licked hungrily into his mouth, nudging Jaskier's tongue with his own. Jaskier tasted faintly like ale and more like himself and the slightly salty, watery taste of spit.

He worked his hand quickly up and down Jaskier's cock. Jaskier moaned and squirmed under him as if Geralt really had taken him into his mouth. He was beautifully responsive, his stomach jumping with tension, his heels sliding weakly across the sheets.

Their lips detached with a wet, slippery sound. A thin string of saliva stretched between them, cooling quickly. Jaskier's next gasp puffed against Geralt's cheek. He clung to Geralt's arm and took a few quick, hitching breaths.

"Oh, oh, Geralt, _oh--"_ Jaskier gasped, and then he was coming, spending himself in strong, hot spurts into Geralt's hand and against his wrist.

Geralt's still half-hard dick twitched valiantly in an attempt to keep up. He held his hips still; if he wasn't careful, his inhuman stamina would have him ready to go again in under a minute. He did not want that, not now.

He gentled his hold, then let go. Jaskier's erection was already starting to soften--something he found endlessly fascinating in mortal men, how it sometimes happened faster or slower, and rarely, not at all...

Geralt made himself look away. He took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the scent of sex and sweat and sated bodies. He did not know when his fist in Jaskier's hair had loosened, or when his thumb had started rubbing soothing circles behind his ear.

"Oh," Jaskier sighed again, going limp. He patted Geralt's arm, running his fingers down the veins that led towards his wrist, like a clumsy, silent thanks.

Geralt wiped his hand on the soiled towel, then slumped down beside him. It seemed to happen all on its own; he really should have been sitting up, disposing of the towel, and putting on the abominable outfit Jaskier had put together for him... 

His body was heavy and sated, though, and before he knew it he was reclining next to Jaskier, his feet hanging off the other side of the mattress. 

His heartbeat calmed gradually. Their breathing mingled, and the sound of Jaskier's pulse faded into a comforting thrum. Geralt let out a long breath. His awareness of the room blurred, going fuzzy around the edges.

Surely it would be alright to close his eyes, just for a moment...

***

"I thought you said no kissing," Jaskier said later, when they'd lain side by side for a little while, their breaths slowing.

His voice roused Geralt from his light doze. He'd been content to bask in his wrung-out daze, his eyes half-shut.

Geralt sighed through his nose, raising a hand to wipe at his face. 

He had no answers for him. He did not quite know why he'd kissed him after all. All he knew was that the hot, wanton slide of Jaskier's mouth against his had felt _right..._

Jaskier did not seem impatient for a response. He just shifted against the covers, then went still. His trousers were still undone, his drawers open to reveal his spent cock, lying limply against his belly.

Geralt counted the beats of Jaskier's heart--slow for a human, but still four times faster than his own. What little he could see of Jaskier's face was slack and peaceful, his eyes closed. Perhaps he was dozing too.

He raised his head just enough to peek at the window. It had stopped snowing, but the sky was still covered in white-gray clouds that probably held more. By his guess, it had to be around three in the afternoon--not late enough for the light to fade yet. They'd have plenty of time to get ready for the betrothal.

Jaskier suddenly breathed in deep, waking fully with a little snort. 

"Hmm," he hummed, stretching luxuriously. Something in his back aligned with a muted crunch, and Jaskier gave a satisfied sigh. "Wanted to do this for _months..."_

Geralt turned his head to look at him, a little surprised. "Why didn't you?"

Jaskier turned, too. His hair was a mess, standing up every which way, thoroughly mussed by Geralt's fingers. There was still a rosy tint to his cheeks and ears, but most of his blotchy blush had subsided. He looked sleepy and sated.

Jaskier snorted softly. "Have you seen yourself?" he asked again.

Geralt frowned. "I do actually know how to use a mirror."

The small smile on Jaskier's lips did not fade, but it went a little stiff. He glanced away. "No, I meant-- I wasn't sure if you'd just put me through a wall if I..."

That stung, even though Geralt knew better than to take it personally. "I wouldn't do that," he said, careful to keep his tone light and unassuming..

Jaskier rolled over onto his stomach and leaned up on his elbows. His hip ended up pressed firmly to Geralt's, their thighs touching. The fabric of Jaskier's pants was stiff against Geralt's skin. He was so close that Geralt felt his breath brush his cheek.

"No," Jaskier said. His eyes were clear and bright. "I suppose you wouldn't."

He looked at Geralt's chest, then down at his stomach, where oily fingerprints were still visible. "Well, I made a mess of you," he said, matter-of-factly, and rolled over again and sat up.

Geralt shrugged. "I've had worse."

Over his shoulder, Jaskier sent him a small, conspiratorial smile. "At least you don't smell like onion anymore," he said. "Which I consider a great victory."

Geralt hid a grimace. "But now I smell like that flowery abomination you put into the bath."

Jaskier's smile faded into an affronted scowl. "That was some _very_ expensive bath oil, I'll have you know."

"It was terrible."

Jaskier sniffed haughtily. "At least there were no onions in it."

Geralt bit the inside of his lip to suppress a smile. "What do you have against onions?"

"Nothing, but I'm saying that a man clad in armor should not smell of food!"

"I'm not going to the betrothal clad in armor, though," Geralt pointed out. "You picked out clothes for me, if I recall correctly."

Jaskier opened, then closed his mouth. He turned all the way around to stare at Geralt in dawning surprise. It was like he'd forgotten Geralt had already agreed to go--or perhaps he'd thought Geralt would later take back his promise. Who knew what legends he'd heard of Witchers going back on their word.

His eyes were wide, unguarded and strangely hopeful. That look settled hotly under Geralt's skin, turning into itchy restlessness.

Geralt sat up and clambered over to the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the floor. The wood was cold against the soles of his feet.

Jaskier fidgeted, then took a breath. "Not a word," Geralt warned.

Jaskier blew out an exasperated sigh. Geralt felt his gaze on him as if Jaskier had reached out to put a hand on his back. He rolled his shoulders, which were pleasantly warm and achy.

"Not one word," Jaskier said, after a moment. The mattress sank as he moved to sit beside Geralt. "But perhaps two. Thank you."

Geralt winced. He shook his head, staring down at his toes. His skin was still a little wrinkled from the water.

He was ever-uncomfortable with gratitude. Sometimes he was almost a little glad for the hatred and distrust that followed him wherever he went. It was wearying, but at least the villagers whose monsters he slew only ever thanked him grudgingly.

Not so with Jaskier, of course. The man did nothing by halves.

A moment passed in silence. Then Jaskier stood, dug the heels of his hands into his lower back and stretched again, groaning.

He half-turned to Geralt, pulling shut the laces of his drawers and tying them. "I'll make it up to you," he said, flashing him a quick smile.

Geralt grimaced. "No need."

"Silence," Jaskier ordered, pointing a finger at him. "My dear Witcher..."

He took a deep, steadying breath. Mischief sparkled in his eyes, his laugh lines creasing a little. His smile trembled as he struggled to hold on to his composure. 

"I shall bestow upon you the highest honor I can give," he said, one hand draped dramatically across his chest. "I'll compose a moist, hard, girthy ballad about your--"

Geralt threw a pillow at him. Jaskier caught it, laughing so hard he stumbled back a step and bumped into the dresser. He leaned over and cackled, his face reddening. His hair flopped across his forehead, slightly wet with sweat and steam.

His trousers gaped open. The lace on his shirt was damp, the fabric hopelessly wrinkled. He looked utterly ridiculous, and Geralt felt an odd flutter in his chest, like a sleepy, trapped bird.

He pushed himself up from the bed and strode to the dresser to pick through the pile of clothing Jaskier had laid out for him. "If you write that," he said, "I'll have Roach trample your lute."

"Oh, come on," Jaskier wheezed. He straightened up with difficulty, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. "I've made you famous for your deeds, now let me endorse your other assets!"

He burst into fresh peals of laughter, but tried to muffle them with his hand. Geralt shook his head and let him laugh.

Jaskier snorted and tamped down on the rest of his giggling. He leaned against Geralt, a brief, companionable press of shoulders.

Geralt sighed again. It would be a long day. _And_ night, probably, both of which he had agreed to spend at Jaskier's side amidst increasingly drunk lords and ladies and their fripperies. Voluntarily, without anyone threatening or blackmailing him.

\--And Jaskier was already talking again. Of course he was. Laughter still hovered just out of reach in his voice. "--thought it would bring out your eyes," he said, clearing his throat.

He rummaged through the pile and pulled out a blue-gray jacket, holding it up against Geralt's bare chest. 

Jaskier's gaze ran over him. He was looking only at the jacket, and did not seem to notice that Geralt was still naked. He sucked briefly on his lower lip, then nodded, satisfied. "Yes, perfect. You're lucky you've got those eyes. Not everyone can pull off this color."

Geralt stared at Jaskier in disbelief. Leave it to the bard to find some sort of-- of _fashion advantage_ in the agony he'd suffered during the Trials, and in the mutation that made startled, wary glances follow him wherever he went.

He took the jacket. The fabric was cool and a little stiff. A subtle layer of embroidery had been worked into it, giving an impression of thicker material. It shimmered slightly in the light. The collar was finely worked, gleaming buttons lining the edge.

Geralt hesitated, then offered, "There isn't another man like you either."

He was not sure what made him say it. A momentary lapse, perhaps, brought about by the drowsy buzz of his sated libido.

Jaskier's eyes widened almost comically. He stilled, fixing Geralt with an unblinking stare.

He propped his hands up on his hips. It could have been a trick of the light, but Geralt thought he'd gone redder, his cheeks and ears suddenly burning again. His tongue darted out to wet his lips. 

"I'll take that as a compliment," Jaskier said at last. His voice was almost steady.

Geralt frowned. His ears felt hot. "It wasn't meant as one."

Jaskier's eyes narrowed. There was an ominous pause. Then he held up a finger and began:

_A handsome man was he that stirred the Witcher's lust,  
With bright blue eyes, kind heart, and hands and mouth robust!  
He'd heard grim tales of genitals grotesque,  
And vowed that he would bravely give his best.  
But 'ere their tryst began, he faltered in great shock:  
The Witcher's drawers hid the longest, thickest--_

"--don't throw that!" Jaskier yelped, cutting off his own rousing, lively melody. He held out his hands beseechingly. "It's freshly pressed!"

Geralt couldn't help it. He chuckled, the sound rusty and almost foreign in his throat. But he did lower the jacket from where he'd balled it up in his fist.

Jaskier scowled and snatched it away from him. He smoothed his hands over the sleeves, trying to straighten out the wrinkles Geralt's grip had left. 

"You just ruined the work of a poor, overworked laundry maid," he said, throwing Geralt an accusing look. "I've half a mind to let you go to the banquet naked."

"Indeed?" Geralt asked, tilting his head. He could not seem to tamp down on his small smile. "With my... assets... on full display?"

Jaskier pursed his lips. He looked Geralt slowly up and down, his nostrils flaring a little as his gaze swept over his groin. His eyes _lingered,_ staring at the dark thatch of hair that hid the root of his now flaccid dick.

Geralt's skin prickled under that look. He rummaged through the pile of clothing, dislodging a white shirt that looked far too thin and silky, and finally found a pair of drawers. They were much softer than his regular underwear. The fabric whispered tantalizingly against his thighs and hips.

He pulled the laces tight, fastening them. A fine Witcher he was, tarting himself up in this finery for a bunch of simpering lords and coquettish ladies... 

But what else was he supposed to do? Of course he could just spend the night down in the tavern, where his presence would wash off the thin layer of goodwill that Jaskier's song had coaxed from the villagers. He'd sit in the back, nursing a single ale, and watch in silence as their gazes turned wary, then frightened...

"No," Jaskier said, finally. "Better not. We wouldn't want to frighten the ladies. There shall be absolutely no fainting or weeping whatsoever, except in awe of my poetry."

"There'll be weeping alright," Geralt muttered. He took the slim-cut trousers Jaskier handed to him, pulling them on.

Jaskier turned to look at him, offering Geralt the shirt. "What was that?"

"Nothing."

Even worse, he'd have to trust that some burly commoner with a rusty sword would keep Jaskier safe at Calanthe's court. Restlessness would burn under his skin, making him pace. The barmaids would flinch when he got too close, giving him a wide berth on their rounds.

Then some drunk farmer would bump into him, and blame him for spilling his drink. Before long, the tavern would be filled with shouts and crashes and flying tankards...

He put on the shirt, fumbling a bit with the small, shiny buttons. Better to accompany the bard, and make sure his head remained attached to his shoulders, and spare the innkeeper some property damage.

"It will be amazing," Jaskier said, dreamily. "The history books will record my songs..."

He trailed off, staring at the wall above the dresser. He probably saw a cheering, applauding assembly of listeners before him. Geralt looked at his strong jaw, the growing smile on his lips, and tried to squash the warm rush of fondness that hit him.

He gestured to Jaskier's rumpled shirt and damp trousers. "Are you going to wear this?"

Jaskier blinked at him, startled out of his reverie. "What kind of barbarian do you think I am?" he said. "No, of course not. I had my outfit commissioned last week..."

He slid open a drawer and took out a bundle of clothing. "Here," he said proudly, and held it out to Geralt. "Isn't it marvellous?"

The clothes were finely made, the seams closed with small, neat stitches. The doublet shimmered in various tones of gold, and Geralt carefully ran one finger over the metallic weave of the fabric. He did not want to know how much Jaskier had paid for this.

"See, you'll be in blue, and I'll be gold, like the Cintran lion," Jaskier said. He shimmied out of his damp trousers, hopping on one foot as he pulled them off. "And I'll match your eyes."

Geralt snorted, halfway between exasperated and reluctantly impressed. He hadn't even _thought_ about endearing himself to the queen by wearing her colors. Of course Jaskier had kept that in mind, and he'd probably chosen the fabric of their underwear with some political aspiration in mind, too. 

Perhaps even the stinking flowery liquid he'd poured into the bathwater would turn out to have its uses--at least as a repellent for nosy nobility.

"And I'll match yours," Geralt said, clearing his throat. "Very clever." 

He caught a single glimpse of Jaskier and turned his back, blinking quickly to clear away the image of Jaskier balancing on one foot, his slender ankles, the drawers that clung tightly to his thighs. 

Geralt did up the last of his buttons. The shirt draped softly across his shoulders, fitting their width perfectly.

"We shall be unstoppable," Jaskier muttered. "We'll take the court's hearts by storm. We'll--"

Geralt glanced at him, just in time to see Jaskier's dark chest hair disappear under the buttons of a tight-fitted shirt in buttery gold. "Most importantly, we'll keep your head attached to your shoulders," he said.

Jaskier blinked. "What?" he said, then shrugged. "Oh, yes. That, too." 

He smiled suddenly, and stepped closer to Geralt, opening the top two buttons of his shirt. His fingers hovered, hesitating; he glanced down at Geralt's lips, then reached into his collar and fished out the amulet, leaving it dangling openly against his chest.

"There," he said softly. His breath brushed Geralt's chin. "Now you look the part."

Geralt wanted to say something, but couldn't think of what. The sensitive skin between his collarbones tingled from the brief brush of Jaskier's knuckles. The bard's clear, direct gaze was like a gust of wind, sweeping his thoughts right out of his head.

The moment passed. Jaskier stepped back, glancing away. The tips of his ears were flushed red.

"You need to comb your hair," he said over his shoulder, opening the door to the bathroom. "You look like you've just been ravished..."

"Well, I have," Geralt muttered.

Jaskier didn't seem to hear him. "...better put a little bit of oil into it too," he said, shooting Geralt a critical look that lingered on the tousled ends of his hair. "Olive, or almond, I think..."

"Then I'll smell like food again, though," Geralt pointed out, careful to keep his voice bland.

"Hush," Jaskier said. "Trust me, that's different--"

His eyes narrowed. Steam floated out of the bathroom, thickening the air and wafting damply into the bedroom. He pointed a finger at Geralt, nearly poking him in the chest. "Are you making fun of me?"

"Wouldn't dream of it."

"Hmm," Jaskier said. He surveyed Geralt for another moment, pursing his lips as he tried to decide whether Geralt was being sincere. Finally he waved his finger at him in warning, then turned away and headed for the dresser.

Geralt let himself smile. His chest felt light and warm. He held his breath against the leftover stench of flowers and followed Jaskier into the bathroom.


End file.
